


The Bloody Tower

by Meredydd



Series: Boredom Reigns [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-07
Updated: 2014-11-22
Packaged: 2018-02-20 06:02:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2417639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meredydd/pseuds/Meredydd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lizzie finally gets her surprise party for Cheekbones underway.  Too bad she gets tippled and he sulks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. With 'er 'ead tucked underneath 'er arm...

**Author's Note:**

> Another Lizzie diary entry! This one has a bit more dialogue than the others and is kind of sort of a character study? Kind of? Maybe...
> 
> AND! AtlinMerrick! It has the wingpersons!

_**January 10** _

With 'er 'ead tucked underneath 'er arm, she waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaalks the Bloody Tower!  
That is a catchy little tune, isn't it?

_**Addendum**_

Note to Oneself: Do not allow Harry to make arrangements with caterers in the interest of 'assuming more responsibility as a member of the Family.' Did you know _everything_ can be spiked with alcohol? Even fruit salad!

I feel as if I missed something vital in my youth, not knowing this.

_**Addendum the Second** _

Cheekbones is late to his own surprise party. Shorty is here, looking quite put-out. I think someone missed their assignation in the wardrobe.

Note to Oneself the Second: Vodka makes me snarky! This pleases me!

Surprise party being moved to tomorrow. Considering this a practice-run. Harry promises more fruit salad. Am suspecting the caterers are some of his friends. They're all quite young and fit-looking, and Mary-formerly-known-as-Jessamine informs me she found over two dozen empty boxes of Tesco's own appetizers in the trash.

Tesco...is that the new cook? He sounds Italian.  
Pip is eating something awful involving small sausages wrapped in bread. I think it's Scottish. OH! Scotland! I must write a note or something... 

_**January 11**_  
When I was a young girl, there were house parties that lasted for days. Quite elegant but also a bit bawdy, if you knew where to look. The rah set does them now (am I rah? I should be, shouldn't I? I don't think I wear enough white or get my teeth bleached enough to be rah...) and they are, apparently, quite gauche.

That's what happens when you give the middle class titles.

Pip tells me I shouldn't say that aloud.

Like Pip has room to talk.

I think he's still cross with me that I turned his man-cave into a sewing room.

I suppose it would have offended him less if I actually sewed. 

At any rate, Cheekbones Birthday Day Two has commenced. Pip is quite fond of this Tesco's cooking and apparently has brought on someone named Waitrose as well. I must ask what became of Cook and her assistant, Cook.

Shorty appears quite mussed, and is sitting on Cheekbones' lap. I am not the World's Only Consulting Dick, but even I can tell this is not a romantic gesture but rather him holding down Cheekbones so he does not flee.

Holmes the Elder looks miserable. I'm not sure if it's the petit four overdose, or Cheekbones. Or Our blackmailer (The Woman, that twat, is currently on the island of Sark. She is out of Our jurisdiction, so to speak, but close enough to squash).

Twat. That _is_ a funny word, isn't it?

OH! Harry brought more fruit salad. And a blonde.  
Please, please, please don't let her be entertainment. I think Pip might keel over.

_**Addendum**_  
The Blonde is not entertainment. Harry is apparently dating her.

“Dating.”

Mary-formerly-known-as-Lollimarie ( _seriously?_ ) informs Us that The Blonde did a spot of acting, something about a singing fox.

Marvelous.

My grandmother senses are tingling.

That might be the Scotch. 

Damn it! Scotland! I still need to write that speech! 

Cheekbones is no longer under Shorty, it seems. Shorty and Holmes the Elder are doing that “smiling with their teeth and trying not to look like they're fighting” thing men do when they think they're being subtle.

Pip is snarfing something called a pizza roll.

Hmm. I knew Tesco was Italian.

My scotch tea and I are going walkies.

_**Addendum the Second**_  
Balmoral lacks truly excellent towers. I believe there are a few in the city proper, and further away in Glasgow but...well. My, ah, tea is getting to me. And that's quite a long walk, even with corgis. 

Especially with corgis.

My “tea” and I decided that the Aubergine Room (which lacks aubergines but _is_ aubergine... Rather like that _Inception_ movie Pip made me watch. But not. I should order aubergines put in the room, just for veracity's sake) is where we should be.

My “tea” is strong enough to have it's own personality and opinions.

And a nice, peaty finish.

I appreciate that in a drink.

Cheekbones, apparently, had a similar idea as he was sitting on the bed, hidden behind the velvet draperies. My, but he can pout.

Perhaps it is the contents of my cup talking, but I wouldn't mind that jaw line on the back of a twenty pound note.

What does that even _mean_?

Cheekbones was polite but aloof, which I appreciate. So few people do it well, more's the pity.

“I presume you are sulking about the surprise party?”

He said yes, but refused to say it was a sulk. Insisted it was simply how he thought.

I am not the most maternal person in the world, but I know a childish sulk when I see one.

I _do_ deal with MPs now and again, you know.

“Did you know,” Cheekbones demanded when it was apparent I was settling in (the bed is comfortable, if overwhelmingly aubergine), “Henry has arranged for that flock of tanned, blond, rah-ish youth to act as wingmen?”

I learned at my mother's knee how to keep a bland expression while radiating displeasure. It was lost on Cheekbones.

“Wingmen,” he informed me, “act to ensure one maintains a temporary attachment to someone they find attractive at a bar, pub, or party. Henry has organized his friends into a loosely hierarchical group of wingmen and is using this event as a trial run. If it works, he will begin hiring them out for parties and pub crawls. Under an assumed name, of course.” 

Apparently, my response of “No shit, Sherlock,” was more startling than I predicted. He stared, turned a funny color, then made a noise similar to one of my corgis when their tail is trodden upon. I didn't have the heart to inform him it was Harry, not Henry. 

This was very good “tea.”

He gained his feet and offered me his hand. “This castle lacks a truly proper tower,” he informed me.

It was my turn to cackle. I told him that We had just been considering that. He looked something between sad and angry, lost and a bit confused. “Shall we find a tower, then?”

His smile was quick. “I was in the Bloody Tower wing of my mind palace,” he said. “I find it...relaxing.”

I will not say that my suggestion was one of my better ones, but I'd had quite a bit of “tea” and I do so hate to see my Private Dick looking so...forlorn.

You thought I was going to say limp, didn't you?

Cheeky devil.

I pressed the button set into the nightstand. It would summon one of the Marys. “Come along,” I ordered. “We have very little time and quite a long way to go.”

He followed me to the door, his expression strange to me. “Are you kidnapping me, Your Highness?”

I downed the last of my drink and patted his arm. “Where we're going, call me Betty. Wouldn't do to have even more rumors start, eh?”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A brief visit to the Tower...what could go wrong?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the delay! Real Life (tm) is a harsh mistress, isn't she?
> 
> There's more to come--this section of Lizzie's Diaries is shaping up to have multiple chapters!

_**January 12th....ish.** _

_The Queen's Cock._

Well, I never!

_**Addendum** _

I mean, of course I have. I have children. But I never!

Who the Hell governs the naming of pubs in this country?

Oh...wait...

Cheekbones has a wide variety of people owing him favors, it seems. Someone in Scotland who has a private plane and brought us to London, those little Dickensian urchins who stood look out whilst he took us into the Tower...

I suppose they're not Dickensian, really. We don't have workhouses anymore.

I should look into that. I'd dearly love to see those twats from _The Only Way is Essex_ making souvenirs or something awful.

The Tower at night is...unsettling. I suppose it is during the day as well, but for other reasons. Tourists, mostly, and the bloody pageantry. Cheekbones, however, was able to tell me some interesting things. I am now one of four people alive that knows what happened to the Princes. And I also know that the guards keep a mini-fridge in their break area and it is stocked with TimTams, potted beef, and Irn Bru.

Note to self: Tell Holmes the Elder to lean on someone to make them put actual food in there. I can't have gassy guards at Our Tower.

Apparently, Cheekbone's influence does not extend to the local constabulary.

Note to self the second: check into possibility of reintroducing stockades. That DI Lloyd chap needs a good tomato-ing.

 

_**January 13** _

Something of which I was unaware: We are apparently not recognized when We are not in our 'official' outfit. Cheekbones decided we needed disguises (I'm fairly certain the entire bottle of port he drank on the plane had something to do with that). I was booked into gaol whilst wearing a Union Jack shirt, a tam o'shanter, and trousers made from what I believe is a hybrid of bee stingers and unwashed wool.

We are not amused.

Cheekbones, however, can make skin tight jeans _work_.

Lucky Shorty.

_**Addendum** _

Reintroduc stockades.

Put Cheekbones in them for shouting “Run!” and taking off like a greyhound the moment we're made.

We do not run.

_Ever_.

And We were booked for trespassing as well as carrying false identification.

_**January 13** _

Pip is not amused.

_**Addendum the Second**_  
Pip and Harry bailed me out.

Let me reiterate that: _Pip and Harry bailed me out._

I am the Queen of England. And my husband and grandson bailed me out of gaol.

Because no one knew it was truly me.

I...am at once displeased and amused.

Yes. We are amused.

Harry will be insufferable now.

_**Addendum the Second** _

Cheekbones has done a runner, apparently. I am returning to Balmoral, Holmes the Elder is enlisting someone named Lestrade to track down Our Private Dick. Shorty is, by all accounts, snorting and pacing and generally acting like an angry bulldog in Our guest wing.

Wills suggested allowing Shorty to see Georgey-Porgy, but Our Granddaughter-in-law refused to allow his young ears to hear the language Shorty was spewing.

Well, Wills said Kate said that. I am more prone to think it was Mary-formerly-known-as-Loleen.

If Holmes the Elder doesn't get his arse in gear on that naming law soon, I'm hiding all the Rennies.

_All_ of them.

_**Addendum the Third** _

Cheekbones has been found.

There's been a murder in the Tower.

How exciting!

...did I just say that?

Hmph. Yes. Yes I did. I dare anyone to tell me it's not exciting.

Shorty is unaware of this development. I've forbidden Holmes the Elder from telling him and have confiscated his phone and laptop.

Well, Mary-formerly-known-as-Sandalwood did. 

I have no idea where to hide such things.

Pip is napping, I'm supposed to be napping... I have access to people who want to do me favors, too. Cheekbones needs an assistant, doesn't he? And I _am_ , ultimately, responsible for important landmarks like the Tower.

What's that he says?

Let's go? Let's do this?

Ah! The game is on!


End file.
